


Heat Spark

by aohatsu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: The water feels good on his shoulders, the heat and the steam loosening his tense, aching muscles, and washing away the dirt, grime, and blood from the fight, taking it to swirl around the drain and disappear. It stings a little too, a spike of pressure against unhealed aches.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 151
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	Heat Spark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlassesOfJustice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassesOfJustice/gifts).



> 6/22/20: Checking how this backdating thing works. Sorry if you see this twice!

_Thunk._

Peter closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest against the cool glass partition as hot water cascades down his back from the various sprays in Mr. Stark's personal shower. He's having a hard time believing everything that's happened recently—the attack on Queens, followed by the attack in Brooklyn, then the one in Manhattan, all of them going off like clockwork to catch Peter when he was most tired, when he was hurt and exhausted, his body drained of energy and physically limping by the end.

There are large, painful bruises all over his body, some nearly healed with tinges of yellow at the edges, some still a lasting deep, dark purple that ache terribly when he moves. But he'd done it. He'd gotten the villain locked up, saved Ned and MJ and Aunt May and Mr. Stark. A few bruises and, _ugh_ , definitely a broken rib, are hardly things worth complaining about when the people he loves are safe.

The water feels good on his shoulders, the heat and the steam loosening his tense, aching muscles, and washing away the dirt, grime, and blood from the fight, taking it to swirl around the drain and disappear. It stings a little too, a spike of pressure against unhealed aches.

But mostly, he's relieved. It feels _good_.

"Hey, kid," comes a voice from the left. Peter doesn't startle—he'd heard Mr. Stark's footsteps in the bedroom, even dulled by the soft carpeting, and then the sound of the bathroom door being pushed open.

He opens his eyes and looks over through the glass door. Mr. Stark is putting a towel on the counter by the sink, though there are a few already on the shelves on the other side of the bathroom. It’s a well-stocked room, every amenity someone could need already provided and kept ready by Mr. Stark’s staff. He’d personally designed the shower, Peter knows, because he’d told him before suggesting Peter use it rather than the guest room’s shower.

"Got you a towel. How are you doing in there? It's been a while."

Oh. Bringing a towel in was just an excuse to check on Peter. That makes sense.

"I'm okay. It just... feels good. The water."

"Yeah?" Mr. Stark prompts, looking at Peter through the glass. Peter doesn't miss the way his eyes glance down, taking in Peter's body, all the bruises and scrapes, the various colors that skin ought not be.

Peter swallows, his cock twitching traitorously even though Peter knows Mr. Stark isn't thinking anything like that. Still, he's naked and heated and wet, and Mr. Stark is looking at him.

Mr. Stark coughs, glancing away from him, his eyes skittering from one wall to the other.

Peter hums in reply, a soft affirmation. His cock is still stirring against all better judgement. Maybe it's the hot water, or the adrenaline slow-down after a battle, or the slight pain of the hot water hitting his bruises and the steam loosening his muscles.

Or maybe it's just that Mr. Stark is still standing there, not moving.

Not leaving.

His fingers twitch. He lifts an arm up tentatively until he can cup his cock in his hand, eyes fluttering nearly shut at the touch. 

They fly back open at Mr. Stark's choked cough.

"I'll get out of your way," Mr. Stark says, voice too dark, too deep, for the feigned casualness of the words. 

Peter's breathing is heavy when he says, "Mr. Stark, please. I want you to stay."

He's not sure what, exactly, gives him the courage to make the request. He doesn't think he'd have said it if he weren't so tired, his body so heavy, if his cock wasn't already hard, and if Mr. Stark weren't already so close to watching him.

Mr. Stark is quiet for the shortest of moments, and then, "Keep moving your hand, kid."

Peter groans and does as he's asked, but gentle, slow. He wants to make sure Mr. Stark can _see_ him, can see what he's doing to him. He jerks his cock, pulling his hand up from the base to the very tip. Runs a thumb around the tip in a slow, wet circle that makes his thighs quiver before he moves his fist back down to the base, his wrist brushing against his balls.

"Tell me how it feels, Pete."

Mr. Stark's voice is rough, heavy. Peter's mouth falls open in a pant, the air thick and hot in the shower. Water gets in, and he has to swallow, turn his face out of the spray.

"Feels good," he gasps.

"What does? Tell me."

Peter looks up again, eyes hooded. Mr. Stark isn't even touching himself. He's just standing there, watching Peter with tensely set shoulders, his eyes dark and piercing and so, so focused.

Focused on _Peter_ , on Peter’s hand wrapped around his own cock.

"Jerking off for you," Peter answers.

"You like it when people watch you get off, Pete? Like people to see you?"

Instantly, Peter shakes his head, the spray of the water slapping against the glass walls. No. _No_ , that's not what he—

"Just you," and it sounds like a plea, or maybe a promise. "Just want you to see. Want you to watch me."

Mr. Stark's eyes go even darker.

"I'm watching," he says, and then takes a single, dangerous step closer to the shower. To Peter.

"Come on, Pete. Fuck your hand for me. I want to see you."

Peter stumbles a step back as he increases the tightness of his grip, and he cries out when his back hits the glass and his broken rib protests angrily at the sudden mistreatment. Oddly enough, it doesn't lessen his desperate need to come at all, though Mr. Stark quickly takes another step forward, his face a mix of concern and dark, heated arousal. Peter can feel the dribble of pre-come that blooms at the tip of his cock before he catches it with his fist. 

"Alright, kid?" Mr. Stark asks. He's so close he could touch the glass if he wanted.

"Mmhmm," Peter manages.

The glass is hot and slippery against his skin.

He's jerking his cock so fast and tight now that it's almost painful. 

He wants to lean his head back and bare his throat to the heat of the shower, but that would mean taking his eyes away from Mr. Stark's.

His stomach tenses, his entire pelvis trembling, his knees weak and his legs barely still keeping him upright.

"Show me what you look like when you’re coming, kid," Mr. Stark demands, his voice not leaving any other option. He sounds almost as desperate as Peter feels.

Barely a moment later, cock wrapped under his fist, Peter comes with a sob, working his way through it, fingers being coated with the sticky, white fluid before the spray of water washes it away and down the drain.

Peter stumbles, grasping at the slippery glass walls. Mr. Stark pushes through the door immediately and says, "F.R.I.D.A.Y., turn the water off."

Mr. Stark gets wet anyway, his _Led Zeppelin_ t-shirt darkening from the water that soaks into his sleeves and collar. "Pete, hey, come on. I've got you." 

Peter clings to him, hissing when one of Mr. Stark's hands brushes against the biggest bruise on his back, spreading black and purple along his hip. Mr. Stark mutters an apology and adjusts his grip to help carry Peter out of the bathroom and into the bedroom to lay down.

"I liked it," Peter mutters, once he’s settled onto the bed.

A pause. "It felt good?"

It hurt, a spark of pain that shot through him like a live-wire to his already soft and spent cock. He's too tired for more, he thinks.

"It felt good."

Mr. Stark runs a hand through his hair, pushing wet curls to the side. "It looked good too," he murmurs. "You did good, kid. Peter."

"You liked watching me?" Peter asks, sleepy already. He's lying in Mr. Stark's bed, body aching and sated, and Mr. Stark is whispering that he _did good_. 

"You're beautiful, kid."

_You did good, kid. Peter._

_You’re beautiful, kid._

He smiles, breathes slowly, and falls asleep.


End file.
